"O God, I could be bounded in a nut shell and count myself
a king of infinite space,
were it not that I have bad dreams."
- Hamlet
Act II scene ii

18 February 2016

Tennyson

A general view of Somersby

I enjoyed a lovely walk in the southern Lincolnshire Wolds on Tuesday. The weather was gorgeous. A bright, clear winter's day with frost on the ground when the sun rose up above that rolling chalkland.

Somersby Church where Tennyson was
christened in 1809

The walk brought me to two tiny villages where, in the early years of the nineteenth century, The Reverend George Tennyson was the local vicar. In one of these villages - Somersby - he and his wife Elizabeth had twelve children. Their fourth child was named Alfred, later Alfred Lord Tennyson who was to become England's Poet Laureate, an office he held for forty years spanning most of the Victorian era.

In the other village, the curiously named Bag Enderby, there was a little display inside the church in honour of Tennyson. It included the following poem, in which the poet imagines himself as a stream. The lines were undoubtedly embroidered with memories from his rural childhood - the same landscape through which I was walking.

In St Margaret's Church, where the Reverend Tennyson often preached, I read the poem through and contemplated its loveliness, like The River Lymm babbling its narrow way to the sea. I leave it here for you to enjoy too....

The Brook

I come from haunts of coot and hern,I make a sudden sallyAnd sparkle out among the fern,To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down,Or slip between the ridges,By twenty thorpes, a little town,And half a hundred bridges.

Till last by Philip's farm I flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on for ever.

I chatter over stony ways,In little sharps and trebles,I bubble into eddying bays,I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my banks I fretBy many a field and fallow,And many a fairy foreland setWith willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter, as I flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on for ever.

I wind about, and in and out,With here a blossom sailing,And here and there a lusty trout,And here and there a grayling,

And here and there a foamy flakeUpon me, as I travelWith many a silvery waterbreakAbove the golden gravel,

And draw them all along, and flowTo join the brimming riverFor men may come and men may go,But I go on for ever.

I steal by lawns and grassy plots,I slide by hazel covers;I move the sweet forget-me-notsThat grow for happy lovers.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,Among my skimming swallows;I make the netted sunbeam danceAgainst my sandy shallows.

37 comments:

As you know, I'm not a great one for poetry, but I did enjoy this one. Interesting use of the word 'bicker' which I didn't know also had the meaning '(of water) flow or fall with a gentle repetitive noise; patter.'

Lovely little poem, Mr. Tennyson. By the third stanza I was, myself, as a small rock flowing and winding. And at the end of the ditty, I thought about all the words in that poem that are no longer used at all or have been replaced by another, less noble, word.

I love this poem. My uncle and Aunt farmed at Tetford, just a few miles from Somersby and as a child I often visited the church with my father. If i remember there used to be a small cabinet filled with mementoes of him.My father and I used to recite this poem as we walked there - I still know it off by heart. Thanks for the photograph and also the reminder.

Lovely poem - I remember it from school, especially the repeated lines 'For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever.' and the idea of the impermanence of people compared to landscapes. I recall another of Tennyson's - The Splendour Falls on Castle Walls; also a favourite.

This was a lovely read along with my morning coffee, and beautiful pictures of what really was a gorgeous day. Glad you were able to make the most of it and be out there!I do miss walking for more than a few minutes to the train station and the office building, but it's been too wet and cold for my liking to spend more time than necessary outdoors.

High praise coming from you -- am I dreaming? I do have roots in Victorian England. My mother's maternal grandfather, Solomon Aarons, was born in Whitechapel, London, in 1847. Never fear, he emigrated during his teen years with his parents to Philadelphia in the U.S., long before Jack the Ripper set up shop.

I enjoy Tennyson. I used to be able to recite Crossing the Bar. That's about Salcombe or the approach to it. He also wrote one about cavalry charging canons which made sense if you were the one with the canon. Daft buggers they were in the cavalry. I think Lord Lucan was in charge of the charge but then he killed someone and disappeared somewhere.I bet you thought I was ignorant but I know stuff.

Sunset and evening star And one clear call for me,And may there be no moaning of the barWhen I put out to sea.

...and so forth.

Adrian, you are talking about The Charge of the Light Brigade which Tennyson wrote to commemorate the Battle of Balaclava during the Crimean War. Who needs Wikipedia when you have a mind like mine? (he said modestly)

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